


parallax error: line of sight

by min_mintobe



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sakusa thinks about sex, Slow Burn, but no actual sex is had, of the sensory processing kind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:15:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26213260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/min_mintobe/pseuds/min_mintobe
Summary: But there's one setter out there Sakusa has only played a handful of games against, and even fewer games beside. His tosses leave Sakusa breathless with delight at sixteen, and he never feels quite as satisfied again in the six years after.Feelings, of the sporting kind, and one kiss.ft. team spirit, philosophising, and early morning misunderstandings.Sakusa POV.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 64
Kudos: 513





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Parallax error occurs when an object (of affection, or of the physical kind) is viewed along two different lines of sight. Parallax may be measured by the angle of inclination between these two lines of sight. 
> 
> I wanted to write a story about two people looking at each other; about the degree of attraction between them; about how they converged for a moment. 
> 
> Thank you to the SASS discord darlings who gave me endless support and encouragement, and made this fic possible ♥
> 
> HUGE THANKS to [Quip](https://twitter.com/newttxt) for the beta read, your comments and edits brought me back to life. 
> 
> Companion fic (Atsumu POV): [parallax error: angle of inclination](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25748848)

Another version of their first kiss goes like this:

A year ago, Sakusa Kiyoomi signs on to the MSBY Black Jackals. The first person he sees when he walks into the locker room is the ( _familiar, welcome_ ) Miya Atsumu.

"Omi-kun," Atsumu simpers, "Nice to have you here!' 

The sour slant of his eyes seems to suggest the opposite, but Sakusa shrugs it off. He can live with an old grudge.

 _Nice to be here on the same side of the net now_. _Setters like you are always more annoying on the other side of the court._

Six years ago, Sakusa first gets to play with Atsumu at the National Youth Training camp. Atsumu's tosses are like nothing Sakusa has ever seen. He's played with and against some of the best, and still the way Atsumu sends the ball flying at him leaves him shaken to the core, palm stinging with victory, heart singing with joy. 

"Sakusa," Atsumu had been polite enough to say, on the first day. 

"Omi-kun," he'd said, not even twenty-four hours later.

 _Miya_ , Sakusa had said in return, petty enough to ignore Atsumu's request to be called by his first name. Atsumu had raged about it for the rest of the camp. 

And now they are teammates on the Black Jackals, Atsumu not quite managing to swallow his bitter expression as the rest of the team welcomes Sakusa. 

Fresh from practice, Atsumu is broader than Sakusa remembers. Stronger, warmer, and more tempered than he was at seventeen, when they had first played against each other.

* * *

A year before the camp, they play against each other for the first time at the Spring Interhigh as first years. Atsumu's a good setter. Sakusa knows this. The way he ( _obscenely, harshly_ ) judges his own team and finds them wanting is breathtaking. 

_"MOVE, ya' scrub."_

_"LEFT, FASTER—"_

_"Come ON—"_

_"Fucking score with it then, if it was a good toss."_

His teammates groan, but they still jump, still get points off Atsumu's wild, demanding sets. 

Atsumu's an excellent setter. 

_Set for me_ , Sakusa suddenly thinks, mid-match. _Show me how good you really are_. 

Itachiyama has one hell of a setter in Iizuna. Strong and steady, tosses arcing high and perfect to where Sakusa wants them to be. Strong on offence, strong on defence _—_ strong all-round, rock-solid and reliable. This piss-haired setter across the net can't hold a candle to the way Iizuna commands the team, already a captain in the making. 

And yet. 

It ignites something inside Sakusa to know that there are setters out there good enough to elevate an entire team; good enough to sharpen a mediocre spiker's hits into untouchable spikes. 

_You don't matter_ , setters like that say to spikers like him. _My skill is enough_. 

Oikawa Tooru, or so Sakusa hears from Wakatoshi. 

Kageyama Tobio, or so Wakatoshi hears from Oikawa. 

Miya Atsumu, right before his eyes. 

Sakusa can't wait to play with him. 

* * *

Atsumu's talent, then, had been half him and half Osamu. Playing against the first-year Miya twins in the Spring Interhigh forever brands Miya Atsumu as just _Atsumu_ in Sakusa's mind. They're terrifying, and while Sakusa still says _Miya_ to them both, it is Atsumu that sets his teeth on edge. Every hateful, snarling look Atsumu throws across the net as Itachiyama grinds Inarizaki into the dust makes Sakusa more and more invincible. It cools Sakusa's irritation to know that Atsumu will go back to Hyogo, back home with his fiery, tempestuous team quenched, satisfaction denied. 

Atsumu's talent, now, sends shivers up Sakusa's spine. Lining up for spiking drills with the rest of the Jackals, he wonders if Atsumu still sets like he did at seventeen. The way they'd played together at that one camp had set Sakusa on fire, and he's been burning to play beside Atsumu again ever since. 

They sync up perfectly on court. 

Atsumu smiles, vindictive, smug. Coach Foster nods, and just like that, so easily, so quickly, Atsumu becomes a teammate. 

* * *

Sakusa is soft in the morning, nerves not yet worn down by the sounds and sensations of the world. He likes being up early, soaking in the cool quiet of the world not-yet-awake. He's pleased to hear that the locker room and gym are open early.

"Janitor unlocks it at 5 AM," the team manager had told him. "Feel free to come in and shower or warm up before practice." 

Sakusa had taken her up on that, trudging his way through the dirty winter sleet to get there early on his first official full day as a Black Jackal. He expects to be alone. 

What he does not expect is Miya Atsumu, muscled and glowing in the early winter gloom, humming along to his earbuds. The cold winter morning is suddenly decidedly warmer. Sakusa stares, discomfited, as Atsumu shrugs a damp shirt off his back, towels himself off, pulls on a dry shirt, and then notices him. Eyebrows clenching up in anticipation of some utterly asinine comment, he is surprised when Atsumu pauses in his humming just long enough to nod and smile, then carries on humming as he strides past Sakusa like he has somewhere to be. 

Atsumu is doing lunges when Sakusa finally makes it to the gym. He's already sweating, breath coming out in rhythmic puffs as his thighs flex and bend. Sakusa's grip on his mat tightens just a bit, and he hauls himself over to the far corner of the gym. _Yoga_ , he reminds himself, _is about balance. Find your center._ It's easy, once he has his mat laid out and slides into the first few poses of the sun salutation. Breathe in, breathe out, arms up, stretch back _—_ the poses flow, and Sakusa soon forgets he's not alone. He likes yoga, likes how it keeps him calm whenever the mask has to come off and he has to deal with unfiltered air hitting his face, his lungs. The co-ordination of breath and movement steadies something inside him, helps him move through the rest of the day with less fear. It's good for his joints, too, warms them up; it puts his mind at ease knowing that he's stretched and cracked every single joint in his body before practice even starts. By the time he's done with his routine, Atsumu is gone. Sakusa wipes down his mat and downs his protein shake in peace. 

* * *

Practice that day goes terribly.

He's rotated through a few different teams in the afternoon, put through the paces of serve-block-receive- _spike_ with different people on the left and right. It's a new feeling, to have to fight to prove his place on the team. Sakusa does passably, performs about as well as he can while trying to get used to new teammates, new signals, new touches. 

Captain Meian guides the team through different rotations and plays, and Sakusa follows, not quite managing to work up the same level of enthusiasm as the rest of the Jackals. The name really suits them, Sakusa muses, watching them move, turn, attack in unison. Like a pack of hunters, thirsting for the kill. 

Sakusa is constantly aware of Atsumu, the most familiar presence on the team. He's paired up with Atsumu for all the sets today, and the comfort of a reliable toss does its part to ease some of Sakusa's newness. He measures the rest of the team up as he plays, takes note of their favored formations, feels his breath catch a little at the strength of older players like Meian and Barnes. Atsumu remains at the center of it all, commanding his hitters with impeccable timing, gorgeous tosses. Sakusa _thrills_ when they fly into his palm, fast and perfect. Volleyball with this team is good, is fun. The worst thing about it is _—_ the touches. Sakusa had made the executive decision yesterday to be more open, less prickly. It's not working out well. Adriah Tomas had been the first to touch him, a quick pat on the shoulder during the first set of the day. Sakusa had felt himself jerk in surprise, then covered it up with a quick nod of thanks. Unluckily, none of his new team members seem to notice the instinctive aversion, and the back slaps and high-fives pile on relentlessly. Sakusa nearly goes flying when Barnes claps him on the back with the force of a cannon, and he very deeply regrets the spirit of self-improvement that had deceived him into allowing these touches today. It is a deep and endless regret. 

They play four sets in two rotations, then move on to the last rotation of the day. 

Coach Foster splits the first-string members on either side of the net for the last two sets of the day. He puts Atsumu, Barnes, and Inunaki on one side with Sakusa and their second-string middle blockers. Meian and Thomas are on the other side, with Bokuto and a few other players filling in the rest of the team. 

"I want to see if Inunaki can pick up everything Sakusa bounces off their blocks," Coach Foster says. "Don't get in the way of his digs." Sakusa knows his wickedly spinning spikes are a double-edged sword, coming back to bite the libero on their side of the net whenever they hit a block. Inunaki grins wolfishly at the challenge, and the set begins. 

By the time they're halfway through, Sakusa's nerves are fraying apart. The constant attention and movement demanded by the game; the frequent and always-uncomfortable touches from his teammates pulling all his attention away instantaneously. Having to force his head back in the game, having it pulled apart _again—_ Sakusa just wants the set to be over. In spite of his exhaustion, they're doing well. Atsumu's tosses are flawless, and Sakusa is silently grateful that, more often than not, it is Atsumu who clears the path for him. All he needs to do is send the ball spinning down onto the other side of the court. Sakusa spikes, again and again, and when his spikes are blocked Inunaki is there, faster and more accurate each time he has to dive to retrieve a blocked spike. Somehow they pull ahead as the set ends, and Sakusa can see the win in front of them. _Don't set it to me_ , he thinks, congratulatory pats from the last four sets still burning and itching all over his back. _Please don't set it to me_. He still runs up and jumps, obedient to the play, but he's hoping for once the ball won't fly into his hand. 

It doesn't. Atsumu sets to Barnes, who clinches the set for them, and Sakusa can't repress a shiver of gratefulness when he sees the way the rest of the team piles onto Barnes like puppies, hollering and thumping him everywhere they can reach. He's mildly ashamed at himself, for thinking he could pull through the day with a new team _and_ a whole new level of physical contact. _What arrogance_. _What foolishness, what—what the fuck is wrong with you._

Inunaki and their other libero come up to him during their water break. They're moving into the last set of the day, and neither of them have quite gotten the hang of receiving Sakusa's twisting serves and spikes. _Don't touch me_ , Sakusa thinks warily at them, hoping for a brief reprieve in between sets. They turn out to be mercifully polite, asking him to show them his wrists and the different ways he can send a ball spinning. Sakusa breathes a sigh of relief as he picks up a stray ball to demonstrate, rolling his wrists and showing them the range of angles it could spin off at. 

Inunaki, thinking things through, clasps his hands together and starts swinging his arms around at different angles; he's got the same cool, thorough logic as Komori, dissecting Sakusa's spikes like they're a particularly delicious series of small dead animals.

"So if you swing your wrist right on a straight, I could pick it up like this _—_ " he motions at Sakusa, arms going out perpendicular to his body. 

" _—_ and if you swing left, like this _—_ " his arms swing downwards, tilt towards the left. 

"Only if you can get under it fast enough," Sakusa tells him, "and the spin on a spike versus a blocked spike will be different _—_ "

"I know, I know, it'll be like this if it's a rebound off the block _—_ or like this if it's shut down _—_ " Inunaki is undeterred, shifting his weight from foot to foot with his arms out at freakish angles in an enthusiastic display of how he's going to dig every single one of Sakusa's failed spikes during their next set. 

_That's commitment_ , Sakusa thinks, impressed despite himself. 

"—oh, if you're not sure you're going to make it, you could try to spin it the same direction every time you do a rebound off the block. That'll make it easier for me to do a good dig." Inunaki smiles, teeth sharp. _You're the libero, you pick it up no matter which way it spins_. But he can't argue with Inunaki's logic. 

"How'd you find the serve and spike receives," Sakusa asks the other libero, in lieu of answering Inunaki. 

The man shrugs, staring at Sakusa's wrists as if the force of his stare can unravel how they work. 

"Not impossible to pick up _—_ with more practice and time. It's gonna be brutal for whoever we play, though." 

Sakusa Kiyoomi's untouchable hits are 80% of the reason he used to be a top three high school ace. Unpredictable and with infinitely more variety than Ushijima's standard left-spin serves, no team facing Sakusa for the first time has ever been able to cope with his serves and spikes within the span of a match. 

"Keep doing whatever you're doing on purpose to make it hard, though," the libero tells Sakusa. "All the more practice for us." He wanders off with Inunaki, both of them elbowing each other in their demonstrations of how to best dig a spinning serve. 

It's a change, professional volleyball. Even his college team hadn't been this _good_. Here, everyone is a monster. Hungry to play, hungry to win. Players he's known for years _—_ Bokuto, Atsumu _—_ have grown, changed. It's as if every shred of doubt and arrogance has been stripped from them, every trace of hesitation or posturing. All that is left is _volleyball_. The way the team moves in sync like Jackals on the hunt, each marking out their territory, collectively protecting the court. Strength honed through hundreds of hours of practice and countless more hours in matches. Sakusa feels like he's the one who has to catch up. He's gone from top three high school ace to nothing more than a promising rookie, and he _feels_ the difference. Bokuto, once not even as good as him despite being a year older, is now light years ahead. Razor straights, extreme crosses, and everything in between; sharp as a laser's beam and just as hard to pin down. Atsumu _—_ Atsumu is incandescent on court, touching ten fingers to every ball that comes his way and elevating it to perfection. The older players are in a league of their own; broader, stronger, and faster than anyone on his college team, eyes and fangs sharpened by years of experience, moving with breathtaking economy and grace. Sakusa remembers how small he had felt last year, the MVP of the Japan National Collegiate Championship, an ace in his own right; dwarfed and trampled by the players of the V. League during the Kurowashiki All Japan Volleyball Tournament. He looks forward to reclaiming some of his pride here. 

The whistle calling them all to get ready for the last set of the day jerks him out of his thoughts. 

"Do your best, Sakusa," Inunaki calls. "We'll take the final set too!" 

Sakusa takes one last drink, shakes the sweat off his hair, and jogs back onto court. He can feel Atsumu's awareness of the court grow, expand, as if he's putting out feelers to touch every member of the team. _How are you_ , Atsumu seems to be saying. _Ready to play? Watch for my toss. Jump when I call_. Sakusa lets himself get sucked into the siren song, wordlessly moving and jumping as directed; the game flows quickly. Sakusa's feeling better now than he was during the previous set, able to block out more of the team's touches. When Inunaki holds a hand out to him as they swap places, Sakusa slaps it on his way back on court. 

Atsumu, as expected, directs most of his tosses to Sakusa and to Barnes. The receivers on the other side of the net struggle to raise the thunderous shots arcing off Barnes' enormous hands and the savagely spinning shots snapping off Sakusa's. They win, and Sakusa endures the last of the high-fives and back slaps with as much resilience as he can (which is to say _—_ none.) He can't even muster up the energy to respond to the rest of the team, and sways where he stands as they flow past him in jubilation. Sakusa could have played better, and has a mild internal crisis _—_ how to tell the team _—don't touch me, I'll play better that way?_ Ah, the inherent physical humiliations of professional adulthood. 

* * *

Sakusa has to talk to Coach Foster after, listen to his debrief of the day's matches; together they dissect some of Sakusa's better plays. It's flattering, but Sakusa is tired, so tired, and he can hardly keep himself focused as the man talks and talks. But this is his job, now, so he pulls his scattered brain together and manages to explain his way through the questions Foster shoots at him. Just when he thinks they're finally ( _finally_ ) done, Foster reaches out to touch his arm. Sakusa flinches away, and _—Shit. Shit. Shouldn't have done that_. There's a beat of silence. 

"You're one of our team, now. Sakusa," Foster says, very deliberately. "What do you think that means?" 

Sakusa's brain is still only half wired together, his head light, and _—and what does that question mean, does it mean the touching thing is a team problem, now?_ Sakusa doesn't know how to answer except to shake his head in confusion. Foster gives him a steady, appraising look. 

"What exactly are you planning to do about this _—_ " he pauses to hover his hand above Sakusa's arm, "thing?" 

"It's _—_ it's nothing," Sakusa starts, but it's a hopeless defense. 

Foster drops his hand without touching Sakusa, but he continues looking at him, neither angry or expectant. Just _—_ looking. Sakusa feels very young. All the way up to college his reputation had somewhat preceded him, teammates had whispered and people had stayed away. But this isn't school, anymore. This is a _job_ , and Sakusa has never had to fight so much to be part of a team. 

"It's not nothing," Foster says eventually, sighing. 

"Sakusa, if you don't like to be touched _—_ high-fives, whatever it is the team does _—_ you need to tell them." Sakusa feels his eyebrows climbing in disbelief. Tell _Barnes_ , who's _—_ what _—_ a decade older, a good head taller, and near twice his size, _not to high-five him?_

"They're not as fierce as they look, really," Foster laughs, eyes warm now. "It's your first day on the job, give yourself time to settle. Look at it this way _—_ I noticed, but they didn't. You can play better, if they keep their hands off you. Am I wrong?" 

Sakusa shakes his head. 

"So you don't like to be touched. That's fine. Shall I speak to the team about it? Or Captain Meian, at least?" 

No. _Oh God, no_. 

"No," he squeaks out to Foster. "I'll, uh, I'll talk to _—_ Atsumu, and Bokuto. They know. I'll figure something out. Thanks, Coach." 

Foster nods, approves. Sakusa feels like his soul has left his body and will only return after a long hot shower and twelve hours in bed. 

Then Foster dismisses him, and Sakusa drags himself gratefully back to the locker room. Bokuto and Atsumu are still around, sniping at each other with their clothes half on. Meian is dressing with serene grace. Sakusa doesn't have the energy to talk to any of them, despite what he just promised Coach Foster. He drags himself into the shower and starts scrubbing off every single searing touch that happened today. 

Well. _You've officially got_ A Problem _now_ , Sakusa thinks, soaping himself and running a washcloth methodically in circles down every inch of his skin. 

* * *

When Sakusa emerges into the locker room, exfoliated down to a thoroughly clean, untouched layer of skin, the rest of the team is gone. He pulls on a clean, _safe_ layer of clothes _—_ long sleeves, long pants, hood for his head, pockets for his hands, mask. 

Then he collapses in utter exhaustion on the nearest bench, hood pulled up and hands in pockets, and lets the waves of sheer fatigue crash over him. 

The world is quiet, dark, safe, for a good while; Sakusa drifts, collecting the tatters of his consciousness into something approximating normal. He feels himself melting into the locker room bench, and thinks about how to talk to the team. 

_Atsumu and Bokuto_ , he'd told Coach Foster. Sakusa knows they know; neither of them had touched him at all today.

It cracks something in Sakusa's pride to even consider asking them for help. The thought is cold and jarring; it tastes sour and bitter and makes Sakusa hot with annoyance. He shuffles through a few possible versions of that humiliating conversation. 

_So about the touching thing. Thank you for not touching me, can you get the rest of the team to follow suit. Fuck you all, just stay away from me._

Sakusa feels the inevitability of Atsumu's indulgent amusement, the even worse prospect of Bokuto's earnest compliance and assistance. He re-shuffles his thoughts, trying to find some semblance of _peace_. Then there's a soft clink and shuffle, and he squints his eyes open. 

It's Atsumu, sitting on the bench opposite him. 

"What." Sakusa says. He is so, so tired; he can feel a dehydration headache starting to form. 

Atsumu holds a bottle of tea out to him. It's warm, and the feeling of it warming his hand pulls Sakusa back to himself. He unhooks his mask, takes a sip, and feels a bit more alive. 

Then Atsumu reaches out, hand coming towards Sakusa's knee. Before Sakusa even feels the need to jerk away, Atsumu's hand just _—stops_ there. 

"No touch rule still applies then, Omi-kun?" Atsumu's smiling, eyes knowing, and Sakusa both hates him and feels desperately grateful that he hadn't even come close enough to make his nerves jangle. 

Atsumu doesn't bother waiting for his answer.

"If it bothers you so much, why din'cha just tell the team not to touch you?" 

Sakusa shrugs, not entirely able to explain why.

"I miscalculated." He tells Atsumu instead, because that much is plenty clear. 

Atsumu laughs, face crinkling up. He shakes his head, still laughing, looks away from Sakusa; shakes his head some more, laughs even harder. Atsumu's laugh doesn't sting as much as Sakusa expected it to. Atsumu is warmer, in some indefinable way. His laugh no longer has the same nasty, mocking edge it used to hold in high school. It's a bright, happy sound, and Sakusa feels some of the gloom of the day start to dissipate. 

"Thought you were gonna die, Omi-kun—your face, when Barnes slapped you—" Atsumu sets himself off, laughing and laughing with his head thrown back. 

Sakusa clicks his tongue, annoyed, remembering how Barnes' slap had knocked the wind out of him, made him stumble forward, choking for air—then he laughs, too, an unexpected huff of laughter, then a sigh. 

"Omi-kun!" Atsumu is staring at him, now, delighted. "So you _can_ smile." 

Sakusa scowls at him, but his heart isn't entirely in it. Atsumu appraises him thoughtfully. 

"I'll tell the team not to touch you, how 'bout that? You're not playin' your best and I know it. Wanna see how good you can get when you ain't jumping like a rabbit every time someone gets near you." 

Sakusa can't quite bring himself to turn down the valuable offer.

"Fine." 

"Sure, sure. Anything for you." 

"You suggested it yourself, Miya."

Atsumu laughs again, easily pleased, standing up and heaving his bag over his shoulder. 

Then Atsumu pauses and looks back down at Sakusa, like a hunter done toying with his prey. 

"How many service aces didja' get through in practice today?" 

Atsumu's voice is still soft, but the sudden interest in his eyes jerks Sakusa back to _sixteen, Interhigh_ ; to the first taste of looking across the net into the eyes of a monster. _Monster_. 

"Four," Sakusa answers, unaware up til that moment that he'd even kept track of his own serves, so caught up with everything else. 

Atsumu's already holding up a hand with four fingers outstretched by the time the word _four_ makes it out of Sakusa's mouth. 

"Four," Atsumu repeats after Sakusa, mouth curling, eyes mocking. Sakusa goes hot and cold at the realization that _he'd been counting, too—_ and then hotter still because somehow he knows, he knows that Atsumu's beaten him _—_

Atsumu's thumb uncurls from behind his palm, turning his hand from _four_ to _five_. Sakusa hates him, viciously and bitterly, in that moment. 

Atsumu smirks at him, eyes soft with superiority. 

"'m headin' off. Seeya tomorrow morning. Eat a proper dinner and get a good night's sleep!" 

Then he's gone, throwing one last glowing grin over his shoulder. 

The hot weight of what Atsumu says:

_Eat a proper dinner and get a good night's sleep_

And what he doesn't say:

 _Look at me. Look at how good I am. Do better. Beat me. If you can._

_—_ it gives Sakusa whiplash. He can still feel the crackling heat in the air, still feel the ruinous weight of those eyes on him. 

Sakusa nods in acknowledgement, even though Atsumu's no longer there to see it. 

_Problem solved_. _New problem acquired_. 

* * *

Atsumu is as good as his word, terrifying the rest of the team with slanderous lies about the time Sakusa Kiyoomi had broken a man's ego on court and wrist off-court for touching him. Tragic, but deserved. Ended his career. Destroyed him completely. Blew a hundred untouchable spikes off his arms on court and then dislocated his wrist for good measure after. You don't want to touch Omi-kun, believe me. 

Adriah looks mildly disbelieving. Still, he nods at Sakusa, apologetic, and Sakusa waves it off with an awkward nod back. 

Barnes looks utterly devastated. 

"AH—Sorry, mate—" he says, in English. Sakusa understands _sorry_ , but not _mate_. And then _—_

"I am—sorry, Sakusa," he says, in halting Japanese, nearly braining Sakusa as he tries to bow. 

"No, no, not at all," Sakusa says, bowing even lower, because Barnes is his _senior_ , really _—_ this is all ridiculous. This is most uncomfortable conversation he's ever had, and that includes the time he'd innocently asked his mother what it meant to be gay. 

"I will not." Barnes proclaims, snapping back upright. Sakusa nods, faint. _Will not—?_

Atsumu is _laughing_ , damn him. 

Sakusa sneers at him over Barnes' enormous shoulder. 

" _Mate_ means friend," Atsumu tells him, later. "You can try it in the morning, tell him _G'day, mate_. He'll like that."

Sakusa stares at him, not sure if Atsumu's setting him up to be murdered by a mountain of a man who has a picture of himself holding a crocodile on his locker door. 

" _Goodaay, mate_ ," he enunciates after Atsumu. Atsumu _beams_ , nodding rapidly, and Sakusa feels the tight ball of _not belonging here_ start to uncurl in his chest. 

He watches the team carefully for a while, after, wondering if he'd asked too much, overstepped some unspoken code of brotherhood by refusing to be part of team huddles and celebratory hugs. They still touch him, sometimes. A friendly arm around the shoulder, quickly shrugged off; touches on the back and arm that Sakusa dodges as well as he can. Atsumu is the only one who never comes close enough to set Sakusa's nerves off, and so in consequence becomes the person Sakusa is often physically the closest to. Every time he ends up next to Atsumu, Atsumu reminds him what the current tally of service aces between them is. As if Sakusa isn't aware of it himself. 

The anxiety in his chest loosens and dissipates completely as the team learns to respect his space, slapping their palms against empty air with undiminished enthusiasm, screaming _nice kill_ like their loudness makes up for Sakusa's silence on court. By the time Hinata Shouyou joins the Black Jackals, Sakusa is comfortable enough with the team to keep their touches at bay with open sneers. The team eventually learns to stop touching him completely. In exchange, they all take up Atsumu's way of calling him _—Omi-kun. Omi-Omi, Omi-san_. Sakusa can't stop his face from crunching up every time he hears _Omi_ —but he's also currently doing better than Atsumu in their strange game of who-scores-more-service-aces, so. It's a fair trade. 

* * *

Sakusa reaches an equilibrium with Atsumu easily enough. They're both the only ones in the locker room early in the morning, and by tacit agreement they both hold their peace. Sakusa closes his eyes and moves through the familiar motions of the sun salutation while doing his best not to think about Atsumu. Atsumu spends most of the time grunting and flexing, which hurts Sakusa's concentration a little—maybe a lot—and is definitely not ideal. 

After exercising, Sakusa's no more awake than he was an hour ago. Doing yoga with eyes closed is something like an extended nap, a meditative half-sleep that leaves him still yawning and wordless. Atsumu, unfortunately, has absolutely no respect for the sacred sanctity of a quiet breakfast. He communicates in perfectly nonsensical sentences, eyes glowing and smile radiant. 

Sakusa is reluctantly charmed by this. 

"Omi-kun," Atsumu wheedles, "—come sit with me. Watch the sun rise and eat breakfast with me."

There isn't any visible sunrise to speak of in this part of the city. Sakusa has no idea what Atusmu is on about, but Atsumu stares at the one sliver of visible sky so devotedly that Sakusa feels compelled to sit down with him. Miya Atsumu, unexpected philosopher. 

"Isn't the sunrise beautiful," Atsumu says, every morning.

Every morning, Sakusa stares at the pale strip of sky visible between the gym and the nearby housing blocks and wonders what the hell Atsumu is talking about. Atsumu is a completely deranged breakfast companion, and yet Sakusa would not trade him for the world. 

Once, Atsumu is so tired he doesn't ask Sakusa to sit with him; he says nothing about the sunrise either. 

"Aiko's sick," he tells Sakusa, as if Sakusa has any idea what this means, "—stayed up half the night with her." 

Then Atsumu turns back to his phone, face crumpled with worry. Sakusa idly wonders who Aiko is. _First name_ , so. A girlfriend, maybe? He can't quite picture it. A dog? That possibility seems somehow worse. Sakusa watches as Atsumu's eyelids droop closed over the text he's trying to send. Then his eyes jerk open again, blinking furiously. 

"—coffee?" Sakusa mumbles, voice not quite awake yet. It takes him a few tries to get the word out. Atsumu, hunched over his phone, doesn't reply. 

Sakusa, half asleep but mildly alarmed, shuffles off to buy him a coffee anyway. When he comes back, Atsumu is contemplating his half-eaten onigiri with profound misery. Sakusa carefully puts the can of coffee on Atsumu's knee. Atsumu _shrieks,_ piercing the still morning air so loudly it gives Sakusa an instant headache. 

"Omi-kun," Atsumu tells him, eyes watery, "I knew you loved me."

Sakusa sighs, head still ringing with the force of Atsumu's scream. They watch the sky lighten together. 

"Aiko's better," Atsumu tells him mid-morning, as if Sakusa cares. He's glowing so brightly with relief that Sakusa has to look away. 

* * *

Every morning Sakusa is utterly tormented by the questions Atsumu asks.

_Do you think the sky would be as beautiful if it wasn't blue?_

_Birds fly South in winter, right? D'you think they'd know how to walk South if they couldn't fly?_

_Do you think the dinosaurs were scared when the first snowflake fell?_

And then, as Sakusa's head clouds up at the possibilities:

_Isn't the sunrise beautiful?_

Every morning, Atsumu finds something new in the world to question. 

* * *

Atsumu goes from philosopher to child as the rest of the team trickles in, getting more and more rowdy as if he's putting on a show act by act. 

"Morning," Atsumu says to Inunaki. 

"G'day, mate," Atsumu says to Barnes. 

"Hinata, you look so handsome today, let me toss to you," Atsumu says to Hinata.

"I'm not vain, I'm proud. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us. I don't give a shit what you think of me. Pass the hair gel," Atsumu says to Bokuto. Bokuto, who is somewhat hypocritical but has admittedly good taste in hair products, shares his hair gel with Atsumu. Sakusa pins his own hair back quickly. 

By the time practice starts, Atsumu is practically a child. He bounces on his toes, looking for a fight to pick. Looking at him makes Sakusa's teeth hurt. 

"Do your best, Miya." 

The goodwill of the morning vanishes. Sakusa gives Atsumu his worst smirk, and if Atsumu's petty enough to react to it like a _complete child_ —well. 

* * *

The days pass, and the sun rises earlier and earlier each day as Spring comes. 

Then Summer, then Autumn, then Winter again. 

In the mornings Atsumu still questions him inanely, voice bright and smile warm. 

He never touches Sakusa, and he never asks Sakusa _why_ , either. He only smiles, and sits a bit further away when there's not enough room on the bench for Sakusa. 

In the mornings Sakusa watches as Atsumu applies lotion to his hands, carefully rubbing it into every crease of his knuckles, around each nail. Atsumu frowns, examining his nails, filing down rough edges, taping up jammed knuckles. Atsumu's hands work miracles on court, strong and sure. The way they flex in the shadows makes Sakusa's fingers twitch. Sakusa watches the way Atsumu carefully runs his fingers over each of his own calloused fingertips, gentle and slow, and feels something like envy. 

* * *

Sakusa notices the way Atsumu inspects his hands, meticulous, after every match. He doesn't stop until he's catalogued every change, any minor injury he'd received. After games and post match interviews, Atsumu sometimes ends up trotting along with him to wash his hands. 

Sakusa likes to think he's a lot more hygienic than Atsumu is. He's half certain Atsumu doesn't know the difference between a bacteria and a virus. Even so, Atsumu's hand-washing routine is something to behold. He takes a terribly long time, wastes copious amounts of soap and water, and always uses at least three paper napkins to dry his hands when one would have sufficed. Sakusa stops minding all this the day Atsumu starts using his handful of damp napkins to open the toilet door, kicking it open for Sakusa while dropping the napkins in the trash and sliding out after him. _Smooth_. 

Atsumu washes his hands completely but chaotically. He lathers soap all over his hands at random, but pushes the foaming bubbles under and around the edges of each nail methodically. He runs his fingers in circles over his palms and the backs of his hands, pushing soap into the creases of his hand. He presses his thumbs into the valleys between his fingers, one after the other. Then he spends a thoroughly inappropriate amount of time washing each finger in a thoroughly inappropriate manner. He wraps his other hand around one finger. Then he twists and drags his finger slowly out of his own soapy fist, inspecting it carefully and soaping it twice if he doesn't like what he sees. Rinse and repeat. It is not at all the recommended method of washing hands, but it is impressively thorough.

One time Atsumu catches Sakusa's eye in the mirror. He grins and winks, tongue curling out of his mouth. 

It reminds Sakusa of the way Atsumu looks in the morning, eyes sparkling as he watches the sky. 

In the afternoons the prickly heat of long hours of practice needles at Sakusa's skin as he talks to Atsumu, discussing new plays. Sometimes alone, sometimes joined by other Jackals. Atsumu gets more and more flustered as more people join in their impromptu practice; it makes Sakusa miss each morning, each calm pondering statement from Atsumu even more. 

In the evenings Atsumu is always gone by the time Sakusa gets out of the shower. But sometimes there's a hot bottle of tea waiting by Sakusa's bag.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings: Sensory processing issues, general anxiety, panic attack

Sakusa's wearing a different kind of mask. 

A pale blue, triple pleated surgical mask. It crinkles awkwardly at the folds, scratching his cheeks and somehow, his palms. He resists the urge to curl his fingers and press his nails into his palm. This mask doesn't fit as well as his regular mask, but he'd been careless and dropped it while trying to save it in a ziploc for reuse, and had to pull out an older kind from his emergency stash. 

It's the end of afternoon training, and most of the Jackals have trickled out of the showers and towards home. Sakusa tries his level best to ignore the infernal scratching, and turns towards his locker with a vicious jerk. 

He tidies his things, itching to leave, when a long shaky sigh issues from somewhere in his left periphery. A quick glance reveals Atsumu, straddling the locker room bench barefoot, _how disgusting—_ looking utterly constipated. 

The gradual and somewhat unexpected urge to say _what's your problem_ instead of _ew_ makes Sakusa blink twice. But the words get caught up somewhere between his throat and his locked, itching jaws, so he abandons Atsumu to his maudlin contemplation of the duffel bag in front of him and leaves. 

* * *

The growing itch in his cheeks and palms makes Sakusa hazy with anger ( _why are you like this_ ), and he presses his fingertips into his palm to stop himself from scratching ( _get over it_ ), and it's a bad day, a day where everything is too much, too painful _—_

He thinks he's outgrown it, most days. The feral fear of touching _—everything_ , of being touched, of people and places and _germs—_

He thinks he's outgrown it, but some days, sometimes, ( _today, now_ ) it jumps up at him so violently it's all he can do to wrestle it, _extremely intentionally_ , back down. It's second nature to fall back into the slow breathing that helps the most. _Breathe in, 2, 3, 4—Hold, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8—Breathe out, 2, 3, 4. Breathe in ..._

The mask itches, but it does its job. The warm air spreading across his face comforts him, makes him feel like he's in his own little bubble, safe from the world, self-contained and untouchable. If he focuses hard enough all he can hear is his own breath, and the terrifying noise of the world fades away. The imaginary boundary between him and the world had been endless, once. He could stand nothing and nothing ( _no-one_ ) could stand him.

But he learns, slowly and painfully, to wrestle it into something tangible around him. An arm's length, at six, tears trembling down his face as his mother bows and bows and thanks the teacher for letting him sit apart from the rest of the class always. An elbow's length, at sixteen, seventeen, and eighteen, because it took three years for that boundary to stabilize, to re-form in its proper place after every accidental brush from boisterous classmates, every intentional touch from unknowing teammates. He learns, too, how to temper the brittle defense of fear into the sharp blade of anger, then melts and reforms that into a cold core of superiority. _This is the boundary_ , his eyes learn to say. _You will respect it_. By the time he's twenty-two Sakusa has wrangled it down to a handspan, a barrier of mere inches around himself, and sometimes, if he tries hard enough _—_ it seems like the boundary has shrunken itself down to within his skin, and he can touch the world. 

It excites him, so much, because it's been a _lifetime_ of waiting _—never_ , in his life, has he associated the feeling of touch with anything other than hot pain. His parents had despaired over a baby that wailed itself hoarse at the confines of a diaper, and let him run naked through the house until they couldn't, anymore. Sakusa Kiyoomi chases the feeling of cool relief of open space as fast as he can crawl, then run, then jump, flexible and free as fast as he can fling himself through the world. He practically somersaults straight into the weightless flight of elementary school gymnastics. 

_Too dangerous_ , his family doctor had said, after the sixth time he'd dislocated something. _Find something that will strengthen the muscles around the joints with less risk._ Sakusa loves to run, to jump, to feel air whistling past him. Without gymnastics he's listless, wandering the school corridors without purpose. One day his cousin comes to him and says, _come play volleyball with me._ Sakusa follows. A few months later his PE teacher pulls him aside after class, tells him he has wrists built for untouchable serves, shows him a video of a young Nicolas Romero doing a spike serve. Sakusa looks at the way he runs up, and jumps up, and slams the ball down so hard he feels the air whistling off it through the screen. _Do you want to join the volleyball team_ , his teacher asks. _Yes_ , Sakusa says. 

His teacher is right. His serves are untouchable. 

He learns to take care of his joints, the impacts and requirements of serves and receives much more predictable than those of back handsprings and aerial cartwheels. Sakusa loves volleyball, loves how good it feels when a perfectly set ball spins off his palm and arcs savagely down onto the other side of the court. Sometimes he remembers gymnastics, and wishes he could be the one flinging himself recklessly through the air. But Sakusa is, above all, a realist. He learns to stop being annoyed whenever Bokuto throws himself into a careless handstand or cartwheel. 

Undaunted by the old memory of the bad first day with the Black Jackals, Sakusa makes up his mind to wrestle his boundaries down to under his skin. To learn to touch the world. _The duality of man_. Oh, to learn what the world feels like beyond the savage joy of an untouchable serve and the careful maintenance of personal boundaries. If there's one thing Sakusa truly appreciates in this world, it's the people who know the value of a good serve, and who can _remember_ where his personal boundaries lie. 

It's a matter of practice, he knows. Like serves. Like boundaries. All good things come with practice. 

* * *

Now, though. Now he thinks he wants to touch _so much_ that he won't be able to keep his stupid hands to himself, that he'll get carried away, take his hands out of his pockets one day and touch something absolutely crawling with germs in his excitement to know the world, and send himself spiraling back into the dark ages of the _arm-length boundary_. 

He is the master of his body. He will manage this. He will not throw a pity party.

He calls Komori. He throws the pity party. 

" _—_ so how do I start? Just _—_ pick _—_ just pick something? Or some _one_?? And touch them? Or what?" 

The slow shift from _don't-touch-me_ Sakusa to _maybe-touch-me-sometimes_ Sakusa is simultaneously the best and worst thing that could happen to his _sense of self_. Komori is not kind enough to swallow his laugh. 

"HIGH FIVE, you wet blanket _—_ welcome to the real world _—_ "

"Komori." Sakusa's annoyed enough to use his last name. 

" _—_ also, for real, just high five one of your teammates, _Sakusa._ "

"No. That's not going to go well, you know how _germy_ they are _—_ "

"You shake hands with other players under the net, Kiyoomi please, get over it." 

Sakusa contemplates this ( _true_ ) fact. But there's a vast chasm between the solid, momentary touch and immediate _let-go_ of a handshake, and the incalculable danger of a high five that could slide into a back thump, a clap on the shoulder, or, god forbid, a _hug_. No, no no _n o_ , his heart thumps, but Komori is still talking _—_

" _—_ and anyway, you hold hands with the kids who walk you out to court before a match. You held hands with that vice-captain of the girl's baseball team when we all had to go on stage to bow and thank the school for their match support, remember?" 

Sakusa does not, _decidedly_ , remember. He does _not_ remember holding her hand, or the stuttered confession that she'd somehow swapped places with ( _cousin, traitor_ ) Komori to be next to him on purpose, or the way the Itachiyama volleyball third years had conspired to call him _Saku-kun_ for three weeks in mincing imitation of her. He hates Komori. 

"It's just _—_ I don't _—_ that's not the _point_. Motoya. How do I know they won't get carried away? How do I know they're _clean_? You have to be _realistic_ about these things, it's not a matter of _—_ " 

"Oh, to live like a mere mortal. You poor thing," Komori says, completely unsympathetic. 

Sakusa hangs up on him. 

* * *

Left to his own devices, Sakusa putters around his airy little studio, strategizing and agonizing in turns. He considers the merits and detriments of various touches he has had to endure ( _The handshake. The hand hold. The high five._ ) and those he has not ( _The hug. The kiss. Sex._ ) He narrows that second list down to the point of least contact ( _a kiss it is, then_ ) and wonders whether it would hurt. He draws up a list of people who _remember_ where his boundaries are but can be relied on to push them without actually wounding him ( _Akaashi Keiji. Kuroo Tetsurou. Miya Atsumu._ ) He narrows that list down to the most readily available participant ( _Miya Atsumu_ ) and wonders if he would say _yes_. Atsumu, for all his other personality flaws, has never failed to deliver the exact kind of toss Sakusa needs to score. The exact kind of kiss, though...? He catalogues the brief information he possesses regarding _Atsumu_ and _kissing._

Atsumu is, according to himself, a virtuoso at kissing. God's gift to man _and_ woman kind. _Did you mean ass-kissing?_ Sakusa had sniped, then, and Atsumu had puffed up in wounded affront. He wonders, past missteps aside _—_ if he just came right out and asked to be kissed _—_ whether there would be a way of rescuing himself from the situation in the event of a poor reception ( _just kidding...unless?_ ). 

Sakusa has witnessed Atsumu kiss no less than three members of the Black Jackals, in a terrifying tournament of gay chicken that Atsumu is winning hands down. This is the only competition in which Atsumu has ever bested Bokuto. _I can't CHEAT on my BOYFRIEND, Akaashi KEIJI_ , Bokuto had screeched, whipping his face around at a thoroughly inhuman angle at the very last second. The hindsight that tells him they maybe possibly _could have kissed, then_ —if the indomitable Meian-san had not appeared to shut things down—does not lessen the anticipation that they could, in the future, kiss. Sakusa thinks, at this point, that he has probably gotten carried away with the thinking and puts himself to bed. 

* * *

The next morning, Sakusa is more awake than usual while he contemplates the sky, too busy thinking about Atsumu to really notice that he's being unusually quiet. 

Sakusa thinks about how he never had to say _don't touch me_ to Atsumu; how Atsumu had reached an understanding of his personal boundaries through some mysterious sixth sense; how when it comes to boundaries and volleyball Atsumu never asks _why_ , only _how_.

 _What would it cost_ , Sakusa wonders, _to get someone like Atsumu to kiss him?_

Sakusa knows it might be worth it. 

It scares him how much he wants it. How much he wants to be touched, to be kissed. 

He wants it so much he almost forgets how contaminated human hands can be, how filthy someone else's mouth would be.

Sakusa doesn't like hand sanitizer, can't stand the way it leaves a layer of grime on his hands, can't stand the way he knows there are still germs clinging stubbornly to the lines in his palm. If he's forced to, he'll use an antibacterial wet wipe, scrubbing it into the lines of his hand savagely, knowing it won't even kill the viruses stuck to his skin. Nothing beats soap and water, and the safe softness of a clean handkerchief. 

If his hands are already contaminated there's no saving them. More dirt doesn't matter. Hands are dirty, teeming with bacteria and viruses. 

_As long as your hands don't touch your face it's fine_ , Sakusa reasons with himself. 

_As long as his hands don't touch your face you won't fall sick._

_As long as no-one touches your face you'll be fine_. 

The mask protects him. 

Sakusa remembers vividly the elementary school science experiment that still haunts him sometimes. He hadn't walked around with his hands in his pockets then. But one day his teacher presses his hand into a plate of agar, holding him by the wrist. Sakusa squirms, more upset at the burning touch than anything else. The next week he'd gotten the plate back, a handprint of green and yellow flowers blooming across its surface. 

_Bacteria colonies_ , his teacher is saying. 

Sakusa barely hears her over the sudden roar of fear in his ears. 

He doesn't let anyone touch him at all, after that. 

* * *

Sakusa keeps watching Atsumu, the next few weeks. He thinks about touching, and kissing, and _more_ —and suddenly he can't quite bear to look Atsumu in the eye. _Omi-kun_ , Atsumu says, mouth curling sweetly around his name. _The human mouth contains up to a thousand species of bacteria_ , Sakusa fervently thinks, willing himself calm. If Atsumu notices, he doesn't say anything about it.

Atsumu is brilliant, on court. His smiles are blinding, and the way he laughs when he scores a service ace makes Sakusa's heart burn. 

Several things happen, in the span of those few weeks. 

* * *

One time, the fruit stall just under Sakusa's apartment brings in a new shipment of pears.

They're not the usual kind. 

Sakusa smells them without meaning to, sweet and ripe. They're slightly smaller than the usual kosui pears they get, rough and hard and juicy. 

"Nijuseki," the shopkeeper tells him. "A delicious new type of pear. Try it." 

Sakusa's tempted. 

He doesn't want to touch the fruit that's been handled by countless hands before landing in gleaming golden rows here. 

"Pick one for me," he tells the shopkeeper. "A ripe one. I'll eat it today." 

"Take two," she says, smiling, and picks two perfect pale suns out of the pyramid of pears. 

Sakusa pays, and heads to training. 

* * *

After morning yoga, Sakusa washes and inspects his pears. 

One is almost perfectly ripe, half a day behind its already glowing twin. The perfectly ripe pear is sweet and swollen, bright golden skin speckled with a thousand brown freckles. But there's a chance _—_ just the smallest chance, that it's just a bit too perfectly ripe. That the first bite will make his teeth hurt, coat his tongue in sour sand, and be a complete waste of a perfectly good pear.

Sakusa sighs.

He'll take the one just climbing its way to perfection over the riskier option. Ripe pears don't unripen, and he has no use for this one now.

Wordlessly, he hands the perfectly ripe pear to Atsumu.

They sit in the early dawn light eating pears.

Sakusa's pear is crunchy and juicy and sweet. He closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the wall, perfectly content.

"Isn't the sunrise beautiful?" Atsumu asks.

Sakusa smiles and nods, eyes still closed.

* * *

Another time, Sakusa spills tea on his sweatshirt. 

He's tired and sluggish after practice and sits morosely contemplating his soaked sleeve in the locker room. For once, he's not the last one out of the shower. He sits and sulks, sucking at the rest of his tea, utterly annoyed at the way his wet sleeve clings to his skin.

When Atsumu emerges, he hands Sakusa a sweatshirt. 

"It's clean," Atsumu tells him. "Change and go home." 

He turns away from Sakusa, and starts pulling on his own clothes. 

Sakusa blinks, watching the quiet way Atsumu dresses and dries his hair. 

Then he pulls off his own sweatshirt and pulls on the clean one in slow careful movements. 

It smells good, fresh and sweet and perfectly clean. Sakusa's a bit picky about clothes, doesn't like the way most fabrics feel on his skin, rough and new. Atsumu's sweatshirt is worn, soft and warm against his skin. 

It smells _so good_ , and Sakusa is suddenly very grateful for it. 

"Thank you," he tells Atsumu, sincerely. 

Atsumu smiles, pleased. 

* * *

The next morning, Sakusa notices Atsumu sitting and sighing at his hands.

Atsumu's just washed them after his morning workout, and it's when he usually inspects and moisturises them. 

Poking absently at his own fingertips, nails digging into the pads of his fingers and flicking away. 

He's thinking about his serves, Sakusa knows. 

* * *

There'd been one incident, in their time together as teammates. Not a major one, just a regular meltdown. Atsumu had spiralled for hours. _I suck_ , he'd complained, sending serves flying wildly off court. 

Inunaki scowls, not really attempting to receive them at all. 

Sakusa offers to show Atsumu how it's done. 

Atsumu nods, and turns crossly to watch. 

"This is not helping," he complains. 

"It won't make your aim better, but it'll help with the spin." 

Atsumu shakes his head again. 

"It won't help," he tells Sakusa immediately. "Don't have your wrists. And that's not even the half of it." 

"I know," Sakusa consoles. "If only you could get even half of your serves to land in court." 

Atsumu yells at him, wild with rage, and stops practising his new serve during team drills completely. 

The fact that Inunaki stops scowling and comes back to practice receives just confirms how badly they all needed a break. Atsumu's experimenting is seldom good for team morale. 

_Thank you_ , Inunaki mouths at Sakusa. 

Sakusa grins. 

* * *

Atsumu scowls at his jammed finger, and Sakusa wonders if he's going to tape it. 

Then Atsumu starts scratching moodily at the skin around the edges of his nails, and something in Sakusa snaps in annoyance. 

"Don't do that." Sakusa tells Atsumu. "Where's the tape?"

"Dunno," Atsumu mutters darkly, glaring at it where it lies on the bench between them. 

Sakusa clicks his tongue, and grabs it. 

"Hand," he orders. 

Atsumu mutely turns his hands palms up. Sakusa tears off a strip of tape and hands it to him.

Atsumu doesn't move.

Sakusa stares at him. 

"Do it for me," Atsumu says. Childishly, churlishly. 

He sounds exactly like Komori on a bad day, whining at Sakusa about receives and refusing to tape his own jammed fingers.

Bad days happen to everyone. 

Sakusa sighs, and helps Atsumu. 

* * *

Yet another time, it's Sakusa's turn to have a bad day. 

The water is icy cold out of the tap in the morning, and Sakusa's wrists hurt. 

He shakes his wrists, can't quite calm himself down enough to be able to feel if the tingling in his joints is just the cold, or the start of something worse. Could be a sprain, could mean weeks on the bench while he lets it recover fully. Could be osteoarthritis, the slow start of the inevitable end, joints ageing and stiffening into uselessness. Could be carpal tunnel, could be tendonitis _—_

"Don't do that," Atsumu snaps, and Sakusa's shaken out of his own thoughts. 

He stays quiet while Atsumu harasses him into applying a liberal dose of anti-inflammatory gel.

Atsumu's kinder than Sakusa expects. 

"Why are you doing this?" Sakusa asks, curious. 

The gel soothes the ache, but it's cold on Sakusa's skin. His hands still shake.

Atsumu shrugs. Then he reaches out, slowly. 

Sakusa sees him coming, and doesn't jerk away. 

Atsumu closes one gentle hand around Sakusa's wrist. His hand is very warm. 

For a long moment Sakusa doesn't breathe. 

It's potent, the weight of Atsumu's hand curled around his wrist, the warmth seeping into his skin. Sakusa looks at Atsumu, who isn't looking back at him. 

Slowly the shaking stops, and Sakusa's wrist feels warm and sound. 

Sakusa breathes again, and finds his voice. 

"The other wrist is fine," he tells Atsumu. 

Atsumu glances up at him, concerned. 

"It's not," Atsumu says, and reaches out again. 

Sakusa doesn't stop him. 

* * *

Then they play the Schweiden Adlers, and Sakusa spends far too much time needling at Atsumu, enjoying the familiar comfort of Atsumu's outrage. He smirks at Atsumu, over and over again. Laughs at the way he gets carried away, heart light at the way Atsumu calls out to him on court even when he doesn't have to. Every toss Atsumu sends his way is wild and demanding, and Sakusa never wants to stop playing volleyball. Even if he has to spike one or two tosses from other members, at a pinch. Sakusa's not an outside hitter for nothing. 

Sakusa comes alive playing volleyball with the Jackals. He remembers watching them on the first day of training, watching them move, turn, attack in unison. Like a pack of hunters, thirsting for the kill. He's one of them now. Atsumu calls, and they obey, eyes hungry. It's nothing like the way he'd played volleyball all the way through college, always the strongest of the pack. They are all strong here. So strong, together, that Sakusa finally feels like he has a chance of taking Wakatoshi down. It lights him up with joy, makes him laugh harder, makes him smile more than he ever has during a match. 

The match ends, and Sakusa makes sure he gets to shake Wakatoshi's hand under the net. _I see you've improved_ , Wakatoshi says. Stating the obvious, as always, in his deeply gentle way. Sakusa laughs. _Not as much as you have_ , Sakusa answers, dipping his head in respect. Wakatoshi's sheer dedication to the sport has inspired him for years. They part hands, and Sakusa jogs back to line up with the rest of the team. _His team_. He swallows the sudden joy that bubbles up in his chest. 

Post-match it's all a bit of a blur, lights and noises and the grating sounds of people's voices. Atsumu's voice cuts through the fog—he's talking to Sakusa, gesturing towards Hinata—Sakusa nods. The euphoria is fading, and already he can feel his palms itching, his cheek burning. He really shouldn't have flopped over onto the dirty floor. 

Sakusa lopes off to wash his hands, and Atsumu follows. 

Atsumu's quiet, eyes dark after the long light excitement of the game. Sakusa wonders why, when Atsumu had played so well. Scored so many service aces, made so many good saves and flawless sets. 

"Good game," he tells Atsumu.

Atsumu smiles, begrudgingly. 

It's the first time he's smiled since the match ended. The sight of Atsumu's smile, slow and sweet—suddenly Sakusa wants, so much. 

Atsumu's smile grows, and grows, until he's laughing and shaking his head, not looking at Sakusa. He doesn't believe Sakusa. It annoys Sakusa _—_ he wants Atsumu to look at him, to believe him. He catches Atsumu's eye in the mirror as Atsumu turns away from the sink, and can't understand what that look means. 

"It really was _—_ a good game. You played well," he tells Atsumu's back. 

"Okay," Atsumu answers, not turning around. "You coming?" 

Atsumu plucks a handful of paper towels from the dispenser by the door _—_ one, two, three, four, five. Dries his hands roughly and leaves, leaving Sakusa scrambling to catch the swinging door with his foot so he can toe it open himself. 

* * *

That night, Sakusa thinks about how upset Wakatoshi had been when Oikawa had disappeared from Japan. About how he'd chosen the Adlers for Kageyama, the next best thing, even though Wakatoshi could have played for virtually any team. About how Wakatoshi's choices had inadvertently shaped his own, too. 

Sakusa remembers thinking through his options before trying out to join the MSBY Black Jackals. Sakusa's favourite college setter had joined EJP Raijin when he'd graduated the year before. Komori's there, too. It's the obvious choice. The DESEO Hornets have Iizuna. A hundred games throughout high school with Iizuna as setter, and Sakusa could easily play a hundred more with him, each as perfect as the last. 

But there's one setter out there Sakusa has only played a handful of games against, and even fewer games beside. His tosses leave Sakusa breathless with delight at sixteen, and he never feels quite as satisfied again in the six years after. 

Sakusa Kiyoomi joins the MSBY Black Jackals for Miya Atsumu. 

Not that he will ever tell him this. 

**You were right** , he texts Wakatoshi a year or so later, after the Adlers-Jackals match. **How can one setter make so much difference?**

They stay up late into the night talking about different team philosophies and the way setters shape their teams. Wakatoshi has a hundred opinions on setters. Sakusa listens to all of them, because Wakatoshi is thoughtful and systematic and his advice has never led Sakusa wrong. Sakusa remembers the torturous first months of Wakatoshi's career straight out of high school, when for the first time his strength hadn't been enough. It'd taken Wakatoshi months to work himself out of that rut, but his determination only shines brighter after. Sakusa decides there and then that if he makes it out of college alive, the first thing he will do is join the V-League and take Wakatoshi down. 

Wakatoshi talks about the differences between Oikawa and Kageyama; about how he still hopes to play with Oikawa when he comes back from Argentina. Wakatoshi's changed so much since high school, but he texts Sakusa things like **Oikawa should have joined the Adlers** as if they're fifteen and he's still mad about Oikawa going to Aoba Johsai. It makes Sakusa laugh. It's a miracle Sakusa's on the same team as the only setter he'd ever hoped to play with in the world.

Sakusa falls asleep thinking about how lucky he is to play on the same team as Atsumu. 

* * *

The next morning Sakusa wipes the constant reminder about human mouths and bacteria from his mind, and decides that today is the day he will kiss Atsumu, if luck remains on his side. 

Determined to immediately put into practice this new, improved, and touchable Sakusa, he goes in even earlier than usual, intending to give himself time to wake up and come up with a game plan. He expects the locker room to be empty, giving him ample time to think of what to say before Atsumu shows up. 

What he doesn't expect is Atsumu, strolling in not half a minute after he gets there. 

Atsumu glares down at him, angry and scowling. 

Sakusa is utterly devastated by this sudden and intrusive bad mood, can't understand why Atsumu has to be here so early and be so nasty right now when he's been perfectly companionable for a whole year. 

"What is your problem," Sakusa asks, because maybe it's not a good day for a kiss. 

"What's MY problem, assface? I ain't the one walking around looking like something crawled up my ass and died, Omi-kun." 

Okay, _rude_. Sakusa's gearing up for a pithy retort, but something in Atsumu's face closes off. Even half-asleep, Sakusa can tell that there's no more fight left in him when Atsumu mutters _—_

" _—_ what's a man gotta do to make you smile, huh?" and turns away. 

"Kiss me," Sakusa tells him, throwing caution to the wind. 

Atsumu blinks. 

"You _—_ what. You want me. To kiss you."

"Yes," Sakusa's mouth says, at the same time his heart belatedly thumps no, no no _n o—_

_Shut up_ , Sakusa thinks at himself, so hard he takes psychic damage. _Shut up_. _You want this_. If Atsumu is even half as good at kissing as he is at playing volleyball _—_ this will definitely be worth it. 

Atsumu's expression is downright delighted. Sakusa thinks he might go blind if Atsumu stares any harder. But then something tempers the glowing heat in Atsumu's eyes, and he smiles down at Sakusa, mouth soft. 

"Lips to lips only," Sakusa hears himself say. "Touch nothing else." 

"Okay," Atsumu agrees. 

Atsumu is leaning over him, eyes bright gold, face flushed _—_ then he smiles, and _oh_ , his _smile—_ it's completely different, at this angle, looking up into Atsumu's radiant face. Sakusa feels his skin prickling, a lifetime of _don't touch me_ suddenly dissolving into _touch me now_. Atsumu leans closer _—_

And then he presses his thumbs to Sakusa's cheeks, nothing but the mask between them, and Sakusa's brain short circuits so hard he knows he is going to _die_. Everything happens slowly, after that, like a dream, like something happening to someone else while he watches from deep inside his own body. The boundary between him and the world shrinks so much it only just surrounds his heart, now, the rest of his body no longer _his_. 

_Do it_ , he thinks. _Do it quickly_ , and let me _go—_ but Atsumu's thick skull is clearly impenetrable, because he only slides his thumbs slowly up Sakusa's cheeks, eyes dark and heavy. The mask may as well not exist. He feels the burning heat of those fingers against his face, the heavy weight of Atsumu's eyes on him. He's so warm Sakusa hopes like hell it won't hurt to kiss him, because he suddenly wants with all his heart to do so much more. Everything presses past the self-contained bubble of physical protection afforded by his mask. It doesn't hurt. 

"Are you in love with me?" Atsumu asks. 

Sakusa shakes his head, perplexed. The pressure of Atsumu's thumbs against his cheeks makes him swallow. 

"But you want me to kiss you?"

Sakusa nods, face heating up. Atsumu's habit of asking stupid questions will never not drive him crazy. 

Very, very slowly, Atsumu pinches the fabric of Sakusa's mask, and pulls it carefully down. Sakusa holds his breath, heart crumpling in anxious anticipation. He holds himself still, very still, v e r y carefully not moving, until Atsumu tucks the mask away under his chin. Atsumu smiles. 

The cold air on his cheeks chills Sakusa to the bone. 

Atsumu is close, so close Sakusa can feel the heat rolling off him, and as he presses forward Sakusa's heart clenches hard, _scared_. He closes his eyes. And then soft, warm lips press against his, and in that moment the boundary that had been encircling his heart explodes outward and away from him, and it's too much, it hurts, and he needs to get away _—_

His eyes fly open, and Atsumu’s already pulling away. 

For a moment neither of them breathe, then _—_ Sakusa sits stone still as Atsumu pulls the mask back up over his face, willing himself _not to move_ , not to pull away from the heat and the pain and the fear. 

But then there's warm air spreading across Sakusa’s face, soothing him, encasing him in a bubble. It pulls Sakusa's volatile boundary back around his body, shimmering over his skin, protecting him. Sakusa breathes. 

Atsumu turns away. 

* * *

_We kissed_ , Sakusa thinks, wrists aching, head aching, heart aching. _We kissed_. 

He keeps his eyes tightly closed as he does his morning yoga, hoping against hope Atsumu isn't watching. His head is light with desire, sweet slow impressions unspooling in the wake of the kiss. 

He parses through them slowly, turning them over in his mind, working out where and when exactly it had become too much. Working out how to do it all over again without it hurting. 

Atsumu's eyes, soft with delight. 

His hands, steady and slow. 

His smile, bright and beautiful. 

_Kissing him—_

And here Sakusa's heart leaps all over again, anxious and afraid, pounding out of place. 

He must never kiss Atsumu again. 

But his _eyes_. His _hands_ , his _smile—_

* * *

Half an hour later, Sakusa, walking out of the locker room with his breakfast in hand, sees Atsumu waiting. Automatically Sakusa drifts towards him, drawn to Atsumu. 

Atsumu, blinking in mild surprise, moves aside to make space for Sakusa. 

For the first time the silence between them is distinctly uncomfortable. They watch the sky turn light.

Then they both speak at the same time. 

"So about just now _—_ " Atsumu says. 

"During practice later _—_ " Sakusa says.

_You can touch me. It's fine. It's fine if it's just you._

Sakusa goes silent, embarrassed. The last thing he wants to think about right now is _just now_. All he can hope for is what might come _later_. 

"Why'd you kiss me?" Atsumu asks. 

"I miscalculated." Sakusa tells Atsumu, hoping to cut off any further line of inquiry. "It won't happen again."

(It does happen again. Many times, always with Atsumu.)

"So why'd you ask me to kiss you?" 

"I _—_ I wanted to try." 

Atsumu squints at him. 

"You wanted to try."

"There are many things I want to try," Sakusa tells him.

"Like what?"

Sakusa can't look at Atsumu. He stares at the sky, willing his face impassive. 

The sky is bright. 

Atsumu is leaning close, his head tilted in patient curiosity when Sakusa finally answers.

"Sex."

**Author's Note:**

> Art for this fic on Twitter [here!](https://twitter.com/min_mintobe/status/1304767381756026885?s=20)
> 
> This fic started out in April as a quick first kiss scene in response to the sakuatsu week prompt “Masks”. 11k words and 5 months later, it’s morphed into one half of the dual-perspective sakuatsu character study of my dreams. I had so much fun (and so much pain) writing this. I hope it was an enjoyable read! 
> 
> If you’ve also read the Atsumu POV companion fic [parallax error: angle of inclination](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25748848), I’d love to know which one you read first and how that affected your impression of their relationship! 
> 
> [Here's a twt thread of my thoughts re: Sakusa's germophobia + hypermobility](https://twitter.com/min_mintobe/status/1276694725899083776)
> 
> [Here's another twt thread on the writing process + my favourite moments in this fic!](https://twitter.com/min_mintobe/status/1308038852074823681?s=20)
> 
> I’m currently working on the sequel to these two fics, which will be a longfic spanning the next five years of their relationship from fwbs to exes to lovers. In between trying to wrangle my 80k WIP into publishable shape, you can find me yelling about sakuatsu on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/min_mintobe)! 
> 
> Thank you again for reading! Comments and concrit will be deeply cherished ♥


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